


from the same star

by Padraigen



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic Revealed, Misunderstandings, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padraigen/pseuds/Padraigen
Summary: He turns his head and watches as Arthur shifts onto his side, facing away from Merlin, his long hair falling away from the nape of his neck and revealing the shining skin there. Freckles dot the back of his neck in a peculiarly familiar pattern, and it takes Merlin’s sleep-deprived mind a few moments to place where he’s seen that exact marking before.And then his heart constricts.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 340
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timewellspent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timewellspent/gifts), [noadventureshere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noadventureshere/gifts).



> Written for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020. For the lovely Holly and Trudy who bid for my fic offer <3 Apologies for this taking so long!
> 
> Prompt:  
>  _Soulmates are identified by freckle patterns, but it's prone to  
>  error, not science. They tend to itch or burn a little when you meet  
> your match, but how often is your skin itchy? There is a booming trade  
> in faked matches, tattoos and itching powder is the easy way._
> 
> _The false match could be either of them. But first instinct? Merlin  
>  wanted a bond with a past partner to be real so much he created a  
> false positive match. The partner found someone else instead and not  
> Merlin keeps his altered freckles covered with his neckerchief. Arthur  
> wants it to be him so much, but they don't match! Merlin keeps  
> scratching his neck though, maybe he did find someone and now Arthur  
> is sad._
> 
> _Definite Happy Ending, open to modern or canon._
> 
> _Bonus, the freckles make up the pattern of the Dragon constellation._
> 
> (The fic doesn't follow the prompt exactly, but it's close.)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy! :)

When Merlin is old enough to understand, his mother tells him of magic. How the world is filled with it—how it can be found in the air and the ground, in the trees and the water and the animals that eat and breathe and live, just like him.

It is everywhere—even inside of him. As a young boy, that had sounded silly. Ridiculous, even. How could magic be _inside_ him? He did not feel it. He could not quite understand what magic was meant to feel like. But his mother had insisted, and he had not argued.

A good thing, too, because it starts to make more sense as he gets older and he begins to realize that magic is inside everyone, and that some people have more of it than others. A lot more, even. And that he _could_ feel it—he just hadn’t known what it was.

His mother tells him that he is special and precious, which is always nice to hear since most of the other boys in the village seem to think him a freak. He’s not sure he believes her, though, and he can’t understand why she repeats it so often until he’s even older. Because, yes, everyone has a bit of magic inside them, but some have more than others. Some have a lot more.

Merlin is one of those people. He is special because he’s not even two years old when he starts to levitate the little toy wooden blocks he plays with (or so his mother tells him). He’s special because whenever he drops something, it will never hit the floor and break. He’s special because one year when ol’ Matthew complains about the crops and everyone in the village is worried about a poor harvest, the very next morning there is an inexplicable overabundance of wheat, beans, barley, and oats. It is quite the peculiar thing that only the peas shrivel and die with the coming cold, and has absolutely nothing at all to do with the fact that he quite hates them.

Yes, he supposes he is, in a way, rather special. He’s not always sure how he feels about that, however. Because even though he likes what his magic can do, and his best friend Will might like it even more, a lot of people _don’t_ like it. It takes until he’s even older to understand why.

His mother tells him to be careful with his magic. She is oddly troubled and fretful when she learns that Will knows about it. She tells him that _no one else_ can know.

He wishes that wasn’t the case, thinks that surely everyone else will be in awe of it as he is, but he obeys. It makes more sense as he grows older.

By all accounts, the village people should be happy that they won’t be left to starve that winter, but they are not. They are worried, and they are suspicious, and they ask themselves questions he doesn’t quite understand, like _how are they going to explain it_?

People don’t like it, and so Merlin keeps it to himself.

— — —

When Arthur is old enough to understand, his father tells him his mother is dead. He tells him he is a prince, and as such he is meant to conduct himself in a certain manner.

He learns from a very young age the evils of magic. It shall be his duty to fight its wickedness, and so he trains. For as long as he can remember he has trained—with maces and spears, crossbows and swords. He grows to be the finest swordsman in Camelot.

When he is old enough to ride a horse—a real horse, not just a pony—his father’s ward comes to live with them inside the castle. She is a few years older than him, and he is quite enraptured by her, though he would never admit it. He still doesn’t entirely understand why she is here, although his father’s explained it once already, but it doesn’t matter. He is glad she is.

Morgana is fascinating. The stories she tells are fantastic tales of bravery and cunning, valiance and glory. Of faraway lands and unbelievable creatures. Of _magic_.

He is forced to promise never to tell another soul of the stories she shares with him—above all else, his father.

He isn’t quite yet old enough to understand why—the tales sound perfectly harmless to him—but he acquiesces anyway. He likes that she shares them with none other than him. He feels special.

On one rainy afternoon, when it is too wet and miserable outside for him to practice, he settles in Morgana’s rooms and watches her as she brushes her hair, listens as she hums a melody from her childhood. It strangely causes the fine hair on the back of his neck to prickle, and he rubs his hand over them.

Morgana catches the movement and her humming stops, a curious look coming over her face. She gets up from her chair and rounds the bed to the side on which he is laying on his stomach. Arthur stares at her questioningly, but she does not look at him. She brushes the hair that has grown too long from the nape of his neck and a little gasp leaves her lips.

He asks her what’s the matter and that is when she tells him of soulmates. How there is magic inside everyone, no matter what his father would tell him, and how some people just have more of it than others.

She tells him that people marked with identical freckle patterns are the fates’ way of telling two people they are meant to be together. That they will complete each other. That they are two different sides of the same coin. This magic is what binds soulmates together.

His hand brushes over the back of his neck again, and he stares at Morgana with wide eyes. His heart suddenly feels too big for his chest and his lips are twisting oddly, like he isn’t sure whether he wants to smile or frown.

Eventually Morgana will stop telling Arthur epic tales and they will grow distant in the wake of their differing opinions. But he will never forget what she told him that day.


	2. II.

His mother explains soulmarks when he catches her fingers running over her own one day. The idea that someone is _meant_ for him gives him a little thrill, and he spends the rest of the evening asking her about her soulmate—his father.

His young mind takes very little time to come to the conclusion that his best friend _must_ be his soulmate. For there is no one else in Ealdor their age who treats Merlin like Will. Like he’s important. Like he’s a friend.

It’s not his fault, really—sometimes (or, rather, _most_ times) his magic has a mind of its own. It takes the triangle of freckles on Will’s skin, just below his inner right elbow, and transfers the same exact pattern onto his own, in the same exact spot.

The skin there is particularly red, and it itches constantly to the point of discomfort, but Will smiles widely when he shows him and even gives him a kiss on the cheek before his mother calls him home for supper.

But it is not meant to be—it never was—and when a few months later a small family takes refuge in the village, Will meets a girl who has an identical line of freckles above her brow that he does.

Merlin is happy for his friend—as happy as he can be, anyway—but he is sad, too. He can’t quite conceptualize the big world outside of Ealdor, and so he wonders if it could really be true that he has his own— _real_ —soulmate out there somewhere. Many cold nights when his spirit is low and it feels like he will never leave Ealdor, he is convinced that he is meant to be forever alone.

— — —

When Arthur mistakenly brings to attention the peculiar freckle pattern on the back of his neck—the one that resembles the constellation Draco, Morgana had told him—to his father, Uther demands he grow his hair out.

Arthur does as he is told—even though when it gets hot, his hair sticks to the back of his sweaty neck uncomfortably—because he is a good son and has been taught that his father knows best.

Of course, he does his best not to bring the mark to his father’s attention again, but he himself doesn’t ever stop thinking about it.

Whenever he is introduced to a foreign princess he pays close attention to the feeling of his neck—Morgana had told him that when his soulmate is near, he’ll know because the mark will prickle and itch.

For years he feels nothing, but he begins to try to catch glimpses of the nape of the girls’ necks. It is difficult, for often their own hair covers it like his does, but he resorts to charm and clever ruses to get what he wants.

Nothing ever comes of it, however. None of them are his soulmate.

And then he meets Merlin.


	3. III.

Camelot is huge and bustling and exciting. It is so much bigger than Ealdor and filled with so many more people. The great big world outside of his little village is so much more than he could have ever imagined.

His mother told him to be careful, and the execution he witnesses the moment he steps foot into the citadel is the best reminder of that he could have gotten. But he has been told all his life to hide his magic, so he doesn’t turn back.

The castle is bustling just as much as the city—Merlin learns that a feast will be held later—and every novel thing he sees is something else to get excited about.

Gaius, when he meets him, is a little severe and perhaps a bit confused, but he’s given Merlin a room as well as a job to do, and Merlin likes him. He likes Camelot in general.

And then he meets Arthur.

Arthur Pendragon—although Merlin doesn’t know he’s Arthur Pendragon when he first meets him—is a bit of a bully. Well—a lot of a bully, really. He is condescending, arrogant, and rude, and Merlin absolutely cannot stand him.

Perhaps the adrenaline kicking in and his metaphorical hackles rising when Arthur says— _“Tell me, Merlin. Do you know how to walk on your knees?”_ —are what distract him from the prickling, itching sensation on the back of his neck. Whatever it is, it never occurs to him that first meeting that he has just met the man fate has deemed his ‘other half’.

Later, he will meet Kilgharrah, and once he’s got over his awe of encountering a real, live _dragon_ and his short-lived relief that he—his magic— _does_ have a purpose, he will balk at the revelation that _Arthur_ is his destiny.

( _“No. No way. There must be another Arthur because this one’s an idiot.”_ )

But then the very next day Arthur’s life will be put in danger, and Merlin, despite himself, will not hesitate to haul him out of the way of the knife hurtling towards his face. The King will say— _“You shall be awarded with a position in the royal household. You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.”_ —and he and Arthur will look at each other in incredulity and then turn away again in disgruntlement. And this will set the standard for their interactions with each other, at least until they learn to trust one another.

Arthur will start to trust Merlin when Merlin’s warning about Valiant’s shield will ultimately save his life. And Merlin will start to trust Arthur when his daring, bravery, and honor cause him to risk his own life to retrieve a flower that will save that of his lowly manservant.

After that, they won’t _quite_ be friends, but perhaps they will be something close to it.

— — —

When Arthur meets Merlin, he isn’t quite sure what he thinks of him. His bravery borders on stupidity, and he is uncommonly outspoken for a scrawny peasant. But he is… entertaining— _“Sorry. How long have you been training to be a prat,_ my lord _?”_ —and, frankly, one of the most interesting people Arthur has met in at least a month. He tells himself he only puts up with Merlin’s impudence because he’s bored.

But beyond a vague curiosity— _“There’s something about you, Merlin. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”_ —he feels nothing that would suggest how important Merlin will come to mean to him, in time.

Their first two meetings occur outside, in the sun. His hair hangs down around his neck and sweat trickles from the pores there. If there is more of an itching tickle there than usual, he does not notice it.

He does expect—he supposes—that they will cross paths with each other again eventually. But he doesn’t think anymore about it beyond that. He certainly doesn’t anticipate how their next encounter will go. He doesn’t anticipate Merlin saving his life.

He isn’t sure how he feels about that. Of course, he is grateful that he is still alive, but his pride has taken a hit. A part of him—the honorable part, the part that recognizes a good deed done for his benefit—wants to say _thank you_ , but the bigger part of him is ashamed at having been saved by a commoner. And not just any commoner, but one Arthur had put in his place just a day earlier.

So he doesn’t say thank you, even though he is thankful, but he also doesn’t protest his father’s decree of naming Merlin his new manservant as much as he otherwise would have.

And then Merlin saves his life again. And then again, when he drinks from a cup filled with poison that was meant to be for Arthur. Arthur’s respect for him grows, and he can’t let him die for something that should have been _his_ burden to bear.

He rarely disobeys his father, but this time his father is _wrong_. He can’t accept the death of one of his subjects when he can do something to _save_ him.

— _“What, because his life is worthless?”_

_“No. Because it’s worth_ less _than yours.”_ —

This is a lesson he’s not certain he will ever be able to learn. He’s not certain that he wants to.

There is a light when he is in that cave, climbing up a wall whilst being chased by massive spiders—bigger than any he’s ever seen or any he has ever wanted to know existed—and it sings to him. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he is, suddenly, reminded of Morgana’s words to him all those years ago. That there is magic inside of everyone, even him.

And he knows this ball of light for what it is. _Magic_. For what else could it be?

It leads him to safety and disappears, but Arthur will not forget what it felt like. He will not forget how it called to him.

With the flower, he will ride back to Camelot. Merlin will be saved, and for perhaps the first time since they first met each other, they will share a moment of sincere understanding.

— _“Arthur… Thank you.”_

_“You, too.”_ —

It will be the start of something, even if Arthur won’t know right then exactly _what_.


	4. IV.

There is a moment when he finds his mother in Camelot that his feelings get all twisted up. Merlin thinks that he is grateful to see her—almost relieved. He can go home now, back to Ealdor, to where things were so much easier—and so much more boring. There won’t be anymore worrying about getting his head chopped off every time Arthur puts his life in danger, which happens so often it astounds Merlin that he has even lived this long without him.

But it doesn’t last very long. Mostly, he is disappointed when he rides off with his mother—and Gwen, and _Morgana_ —that Arthur is not there with them. He understands, of course. Arthur is the crown prince, and he cannot go off whenever he so pleases to save villages in entirely different kingdoms.

But he realizes—even though he will only ever admit it to himself—that he misses him. That their adventures together thus far have been some of the best moments of Merlin’s life. He wishes Arthur were here.

And then— _“I’d ask you for money, but I know you don’t have any.”_

Merlin is so filled with delight at the sound of Arthur’s voice that it can be heard in his own when he exclaims Arthur’s name. It doesn’t wane even a little bit as Arthur calls him ridiculous in the same tone he always uses when he thinks Merlin’s being an idiot. He can’t bring himself to be offended—not anymore.

Arthur is daring, brave, and honorable. Sometimes he is also condescending, a bit of a bully, and a lot of an arse. But as Merlin watches him rally the people of the village— _“So you fight. For your family. For your friends. For Ealdor!”_ —all he really sees is a king without a crown and heavy jewels and expensive silks. He sees a king for the people. And he is filled with so much pride that he wonders if his heart will burst with it.

Suddenly, he no longer doubts the dragon’s words.

That night, he lies awake and listens to Arthur’s soft breathing. He knows, in his heart, that despite all of Arthur’s—many—flaws, he will follow him to the ends of the earth.

He turns his head and watches as Arthur shifts onto his side, facing away from Merlin, his long hair falling away from the nape of his neck and revealing the shining skin there. Freckles dot the back of his neck in a peculiarly familiar pattern, and it takes Merlin’s sleep-deprived mind a few moments to place where he’s seen that exact marking before.

And then his heart constricts.

— — —

Arthur will never say so, but he is gratified to hear the glee in Merlin’s voice when he turns around, waving around a sword like an imbecile—he really should teach him to at least _hold it_ properly—and almost beheads him. Well, not _almost_ , Arthur thinks snidely. He has better reflexes than that, and Merlin’s not exactly subtle.

They arrive in Merlin’s village early the next morning, and after they chase off Kanan and his men—for now—Arthur watches as Merlin greets a man with scruffy, brown hair and then pulls him into an embrace.

His heart does something funny in his chest that feels mildly uncomfortable, and there is suddenly a sour taste in the back of his mouth.

— _“Merlin! Gather the villagers, I need to talk to them.”_

 _“Yeah, in a minute, I’m just talking_ — _”_

 _“_ Now, _Merlin.”_ —

He ignores the uneasy feeling in his chest just as easily as he ignores Merlin’s protests. It’s simple. Familiar.

Merlin’s friend— _Will_ , as he’ll later find out—doesn’t like Arthur. He doesn’t want him here. Usually, this wouldn’t bother Arthur, but his words ring in his ears— _“You just want the honor and glory of battle. That’s what drives men like you.”_ —and he can’t stop their echo. _Men like you._

It’s a bit like a punch to the chest when Will takes off and Merlin chases after him.

That night he and Merlin sleep on the floor of Hunith’s hut. Merlin has shucked off his jacket, and his customary worn, blue shirt has ridden up his right arm. He scratches at the red, irritated skin just under the crease of his elbow, and Arthur doesn’t think much of it.

Close to midnight, neither of them sleeps. Arthur doesn’t mean to have a genuine conversation with him, doesn’t mean to ask for anything _real_ , but—

_“I just didn’t fit in, anymore. I wanted to find somewhere that I did.”_

_“Had any luck?”_

_“I’m not sure, yet.”_ —

It’s not quite what he wants to hear, he realizes, but he thinks, _I can work with that_.

And then Will takes an arrow meant for him. He admits to being a sorcerer, and Merlin is grabbing his hand and staring at him with tears in his eyes. Arthur can’t quite process everything that is happening, and so he tells Merlin to do what he can.

He tries to leave, but before he does, he watches Merlin grab hold of Will’s other hand. After some jostling, his sleeve rides up and Arthur can make out a few freckles on the skin of his inner forearm.

The way Will and Merlin are staring at each other promptly makes Arthur feel sick. Fortunately, he makes it out and around the small shack before he heaves.


	5. V.

In a moment of panic and slight insanity, Merlin thinks— _we’re going to die without Arthur ever knowing what he is, or who Arthur is to him._

It is not something Merlin has thought about often. At least, he’s tried not to think about it. One night, after they’ve come home from Ealdor—after Will’s death, Merlin’s traitorous mind reminds him—he slipped off the neckerchief and used two mirrors to get a good look at the back of his neck.

When he’d seen the freckles patterned there, his hopes had been dashed—at least, that’s what he’d told himself. Because the mark was the exact same as the one he’d seen on the back of Arthur’s neck.

This really shouldn’t come as a surprise, he’d reasoned with himself. After what the dragon had told him about destiny and _two sides of the same coin_ , it should have been obvious.

Arthur doesn’t know. He can’t. If he had, then surely he would have freaked out on Merlin, perhaps sentenced him to death, if his father had anything to say about it. At the very least, he would have sacked him.

So he doesn’t know. Merlin had thought it best that it stayed that way, but…

But here they are. Again, fighting for their lives—and this time, maybe even losing.

They’d been chased into a cave by a party of bandits— _dozens_ of them. Merlin doesn’t know where they came from or how they’d known where he and Arthur were going to be, but it hardly matters now.

Arthur couldn’t fight them off by himself, so he’d charged into a small opening at the base of a mountain, and Merlin could do nothing but follow. In trying to lose the bandits in the veritable maze of tunnels, they’d got lost themselves.

Merlin knows Arthur will never admit that he doesn’t know where they are or how to get out, but it becomes rather clear after hours have gone past without a sign of—well, _anything,_ really.

They’d lost all their supplies in their attempt to flee, and seeing as it is the dead of winter, Merlin’s been occupying his time wagering with himself what will take them out first—the brutal bite of the cold, or dehydration. It feels like a lose-lose situation either way.

“Arthur,” Merlin calls, listening closely for the footsteps in front of him. It is pitch black inside the tunnels—he has no way of knowing if it’s night, or if they’re just _really_ deep into the belly of the mountain—and Merlin is terrified of losing him in the dark.

He hates the feeling that they could be mere metres from the outside of the caves, and with one wrong turn, they would never know it.

Arthur is, predictably, ignoring him. But this is not his usual silence. He isn’t affecting an annoyed front because of Merlin’s incessant chattering (and not least because Merlin has said hardly a word in the past two hours).

Arthur is troubled. Upset.

_Worried._

Merlin hates it.

Another hour or two—it’s impossible to tell—passes when, finally, Arthur halts. Merlin only manages to come to a stop before colliding with him by the shout of rage that leaves Arthur’s lips, startling him.

By the sound of rustling and then a sharp _clang_ , Merlin knows Arthur’s just thrown his sword at the rock wall. He hadn’t put it down since they’d entered the caves.

Arthur is breathing heavily—it seems the chill in the air and the infinite _black_ surrounding them are not only getting to Merlin. Fear bubbles in the pit of his belly, and he would not judge Arthur if he was feeling the same.

More than the fear, Merlin is restless, for all that this trek through the labyrinth of tunnels has exhausted him outwardly. His magic sings in his veins, and he _knows_ … He knows he can save them, if only…

Arthur might hate him. Arthur might try to kill him.

Arthur is his soulmate.

He remembers telling his mother— _“If it comes to a choice between me saving people’s lives and revealing who I really am… There is no choice.”_

Merlin could knock him out—he’s done it before. But he doesn’t think he could carry him out, and he doesn’t know how he’d explain it. He’d done that with the dragon already, and he doesn’t want to do it again.

He doesn’t want to hide anymore.

A part of him still chants, _Arthur is my soulmate, Arthur is my soulmate, Arthur is my soulmate._

Hearing Arthur’s labored breaths is the final nail in the coffin. He hates to see Arthur suffer. So he says, “Arthur… I know how to get us out.”

— — —

Arthur is angry. At the cold, at the bandits, at Merlin… but mostly at himself. He’s the one who had got them into this mess. He’d thought he had been keeping track of the turns they made when flying through the tunnels in an effort to lose the bandits. But when he’d tried to follow the path back the way they’d come, it was like he’d been all turned around.

He’s burnt out and he can practically _feel_ Merlin shivering, even though there’s at least a foot separating them. He doesn’t know what to do.

Merlin’s words don’t make much sense as they ring inside his head, over and over— _“Arthur… I know how to get us out.”_ He wonders if he’s starting to go a bit delusional.

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, and his voice cracks something in his heart. He thinks that he’s failed before… He failed his mother just by being born, he’s failed Morgana, and he’s failed father, too. But failing _Merlin_ … like this…

His shoulders slump. If Merlin dies, it’ll be his fault.

Chilled fingers touch him, wrapping around his wrist. Inexplicable warmth bursts at the points where their skin touches, and Arthur looks up, even though he can’t see anything.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin whispers. Something in his voice catches Arthur’s attention. “Trust me.”

He doesn’t understand what Merlin is saying, but he thinks of the knife flying towards his face. He thinks of Valiant and the poison and every moment after where Merlin has been there when Arthur, by all rights, should have died, and yet somehow he didn’t.

He thinks, _Of course I trust you._

Merlin speaks a word that Arthur doesn’t quite catch and, all of a sudden, he can see Merlin’s face. And Merlin is looking right back at him, lips pursed and eyes wide and frightened.

Arthur looks away, and when he sees the source of the light, it’s like the air inside his lungs is physically knocked out of him.

It is a blue ball of light that, despite all logic, he is quite familiar with. It sings to him just the way it had when it had been leading him out of a very different cave.

Everything clicks into place. Every impossible thing, every unthinkable escape, every lie. Of course.

_Merlin._

And all he can focus on is, “Your soulmate lied to protect you.” _He died to save you._

Merlin’s brows furrow and his mouth twists, and his eyes lose some of their terror. “What?”

Arthur tries to explain, feeling like an idiot. “Will… he said that he was the sorcerer.” He can’t figure out why this is so important, but he knows that it is.

Merlin’s expression goes completely blank. He says, “Arthur. Will isn’t… _wasn’t_ my soulmate.”

Arthur can only stare, because he _knows_. He saw.

And then Merlin blinks and shakes his head, like he’s in disbelief, like he doesn’t understand what’s happening—well, that makes two of them—and lets go of Arthur's wrist and reaches up. Arthur watches him do something he’s never seen him do before… He watches him untie his neckerchief.

The red, tattered piece of fabric comes off easily. Merlin chews on his bottom lip as he stares down at the cloth, as if he’s indecisive. Arthur takes the moment to appreciate the sight of his pale skin, the delicate curve of his neck. His heart skips a beat, and it doesn’t even occur to him in that moment that he should feel angry or betrayed.

He is distracted, and Merlin is beautiful.

Merlin finally shifts so his knees are under him, and he turns around, reaching up to hold up the dark hair at the back of his neck.

For a very brief moment, Arthur doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be looking at. But then—

“Oh.”

Merlin slumps and drops his hand. He falls against the stone wall and doesn’t look back at Arthur. “Yeah,” he agrees.

Arthur searches his face, something bright and precious growing inside his chest, right through the little crack in his heart. “You knew?”

Merlin hums and shifts, like a nervous thing. “I—” he clears his throat, tries again. “I saw… in Ealdor. When we had to sleep on the floor together.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Merlin looks at him now, eyes bright and face wide open. He doesn’t need to say anything for Arthur to know what he’s thinking…

 _I was afraid_.

He doesn’t let it show on his face, how much this truth hurts him. For all he can say, maybe Merlin was right to be scared. He doesn’t know, for sure, how he would have reacted then. To the magic or to the soulmark.

Right now, though, he just wishes Merlin would touch him again. He doesn’t say that, just glances back at the ball of light and asks, “You said you can get us out of here?”

Merlin’s eyes widen a fraction, like he wasn’t expecting the question, but he nods.

“Good.” With a silent groan, Arthur pushes himself up and holds out his hand. Merlin blinks at the offered hand for a few hesitant moments, but then he takes it gratefully.

“Lead the way,” Arthur instructs.

And all the way back to the entrance of the tunnels, Arthur doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, i'd love for you to drop me a line <3

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to drop me a comment! also, come find me on [tumblr](https://padraigendragon.tumblr.com/)!


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